Great Expectations
by cactusnell
Summary: Can dancing lead to something else? Or expectations of something else? Sherlock tests this theory on Molly Hooper.


Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and Dr. Molly Hooper, pathologist, were both sitting quietly in the morgue at St. Bart's hospital, each occupied with their own tasks. The only thing in common at the moment was the foot tapping both were doing in time to the music which was playing softly on Molly's radio. The pathologist liked to have a little background noise going on while she worked with her dead "patients". It helped to remind her that she was still among the living. But she was mildly surprised that her living and breathing companion seemed to enjoy the same thing, often tapping his toes or moving his shoulders to the beat. She watched for awhile, smiling, until he noticed and became somewhat self-conscious.

"Sorry, Sherlock," she said, "it's just that I never thought of you as much of a dancer." Then she giggled.

Sherlock looked affronted. "Why shouldn't I dance! I love to dance! I'm a musician, aren't I? It's an art form, a way of expressing oneself!" he went on, almost defensively.

"Sorry, sorry, but the only time I saw you somewhere you had an opportunity to dance the night away, you didn't dance at all. In fact, you left early." Molly was, of course, remembering John and Mary Watson's wedding.

"There was no one suitable available."

"You kept looking at Janine, that beautiful bridesmaid."

"Not interested. Never was," he scowled to curtail any further comments from her about Janine.

"Mary?"

"John seemed to be jealously guarding his new bride."

"Mrs. Hudson," Molly was now grasping at straws.

"I considered it, but who knows what kind of moves a former exotic dancer might have performed at a respectable wedding, especially after more than a few gin and tonics!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and Molly giggled. He liked to make her giggle because her dimples deepened and her eyes danced.

"You could have danced with me," Molly said almost under her breath.

"You were dancing with Tim…"

"Tom."

"Your fiance, at least at the time."

"Well, that didn't last very long. We only danced that one dance, I think he was a tad upset about me stabbing his hand with my fork!'

"You should have used a 'meat dagger'!" At that the both laughed out loud.

"Really, Sherlock, if you love to dance, you should do it more often. Didn't I hear Mary say that you had gone to a dance club with John and her?"

"Hardly an enjoyable experience. Flashing lights, thumping noises passing for melody, not really what I consider dancing." Sherlock returned to his microscope.

"So find another place! I'm sure there are places that play real dance music, or what you would consider dance music. Unattached males must be in short supply. You would have your pick of willing partners." Of course he would, Molly was thinking. He was extremely attractive, with his piercing blue-green eyes, curly dark hair, and cheekbones the envy of any model. It was when he opened his mouth that he ran into trouble. But if he was only looking for dancing partners, that shouldn't be a problem. At least not immediately. She had no doubt that eventually his problematic personality would, in time, get him banned from any reputable dance venue in London and its environs. Perhaps he should consider disguises?

"Besides," Sherlock continued, "If I dance with a particular woman more than once, they seem to develope, uh, expectations…"

"Expectations?" Molly pressed him, enjoying his discomfort.

"Don't tease me Molly. It's unbecoming. You certainly perceive my meaning! Expectations of a social nature, bordering on intimate, more than bordering sometime. They want sentiment, they want affection, they want…"

"Sex!" Molly finished his sentence with a flourish. She could see the detective's ears turn pink as he refused to lift his face from the microscope.

Molly liked teasing Sherlock, she liked getting a rise out of him. In the early days of their friendship she had always been the one at a disadvantage. She had had such a huge crush on him that she blushed and stuttered her way through every conversation. Back then, he had no qualms about using her, flirting shamelessly and complimenting her to achieve whatever he wanted. But that was the old Sherlock. The newer model Sherlock truly enjoyed the easy companionship of the newer model Molly, no longer a stammering shrinking violet, but a friend he trusted and relied on. The only thing that hadn't really changed was the way the pathologist felt about the detective. The "crush" had grown into love, pure and simple. She knew Sherlock didn't return her feelings, and never would. But he was a man who cared about people, no matter how hard he protested, and eventually he would find himself in her position. She just hoped that the eventual object of his affections would be as gentle with him as he was with her.

Sherlock lifted his eyes slowly from the 'scope and studied his pathologist. She was moving to the beat of the swing music coming from the radio, her long brown ponytail bouncing about her shoulders. He liked watching her when she didn't notice. He liked to see her knit her brows in concentration. He particularly enjoyed the expression of her face when she had her "Eureka!" moment, and the way she chewed on her lower lip when she was puzzled stirred something in his chest, and sometimes other places. A surprising thought sprung into his mind. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Molly developed some "expectations." He decided to act upon this thought before he had a chance to discount it with logic.

"Molly, why don't you come dancing with me?"

"You're joking!"

"Why not? We both like to dance. I like to think we're friends, good friends. We'd both enjoy it."

"Well…" Molly didn't really want to think about it for too long, "Yes."

"Good. Tomorrow night. I'll pick you up at seven."

"Isn't the kind of early for dancing?"

"We'll have dinner first. We need to fortify ourselves."

With that, the discussion came to an abrupt halt, as they each returned to their respective experiments.

At home in her small flat, Molly tried to figure out exactly what had happened in her lab that day. Had Sherlock Holmes, notorious miscreant and sometimes arrogant bastard, really asked her out to dinner and dancing? A couple of years ago this may have killed her with happiness, but now she was left to examine his possible motives. Sherlock never did anything that he didn't want to do. That much was a given. He had said they were friends, and they were, indeed. They had proved that to each other on multiple occasions. He said they would both enjoy themselves. Sherlock didn't lie, at least not to her anymore. But he also spoke about "expectations." Was Sherlock implying that he would have these "expectations", or that she would? Dining and dancing with Sherlock was going to be a chancy experience. Not knowing exactly what he had in mind, Molly was determined not to take the first step down that slippery slope. She was going to be cool, calm, and collected. She was going to have the upper hand for a change!

That same evening, at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was discussing a case with his now part-time partner Dr. John Watson when he decided to mention, in a deceivingly casual manner, "I'm taking Molly to dinner tomorrow night."

John continued to take notes for his blog. Sherlock and Molly had shared many a meal together, both with himself and his wife, and, he was sure, on their own.

"Then we're going dancing."

John dropped his pen. "Dancing?"

"Yes, John, dancing. You know I love to dance."

"But with Molly, Sherlock. Are you sure this isn't, uh, a bit 'not good'? You must know how she feels about you. What if she gets…"

"'Expectations'?"

"Well, that's as good a way to put it as any, I suppose…"

"I'm counting on it, John!" Sherlock winked.

John looked at his friend and could tell from his rather tentative smile that he was seeking his approval. "It's about time," John said, and picked up his pen.

When Sherlock appeared at her door the following evening, Molly, who had been watching a nature program, could only think of the comparison between a peacock and a peahen. The male of the species was spectacularly attractive, while the female just suitably well-formed. Sherlock was resplendent in his tight purple shirt, well-tailored black suit hugging his slender body, and his dark hair perfectly coiffed. She comforted herself with the fact the peacocks expend all their effort simply to attract the much plainer hen. It made her feel slightly better.

Little did she expect the Sherlock was just as nervous as she. He wanted to run his hand through his hair, but he had spent too long to get it just right. He had worn his purple shirt. Well, one of his purple shirts. He kept buying them because, he had admitted to himself ages ago, he liked the way Molly looked at him when he wore them. When she opened the door to her flat his breath almost caught in his throat. He took such care with his appearance, and it always amazed him how lovely she looked with so little effort. Her hair was loose and cascading around her shoulders. Her simple dress hugged her delicate curves to flow loosely over her hips and around her knees. It was low-cut enough to show off slender neck and the gentle swell of her breasts. She smiled, a little nervously, and her dimples appeared.

As the evening progressed, Sherlock seemed to himself to be more and more at a disadvantage. Despite rumors to the contrary, Sherlock was certainly no virgin. True, he considered his body only "transport", but any form of transport requires the occasional tune-up. And, with his looks, there was no shortage of willing mechanics. He did, rarely, take them up on their offer. But this was different. He wasn't looking for a tune-up, more like a lifetime warranty. Molly had seemed to pick up on his nervousness, and this made her confidence grow in a complementary manner. Maybe there was something to this peacock/peahen analogy, after all.

Dinner had passed uneventfully. They had, after all, shared many a meal together, although not in expensive, dimly lit restaurants such as they had that evening. It was during the dancing that Sherlock lost whatever illusion of control he had. They were on their third slow dance when Molly moved in closer than was absolutely necessary, and laid her head on his shoulder. She couldn't help but notice the small groan rumbling from his chest.

"Sorry, indigestion," Sherlock mumbled unconvincingly. Molly smiled.

She then took her hand and moved it inside his suit jacket up to his other shoulder. He jerked as if hit with an electrical charge.

"Muscle cramp?" Sherlock tried to excuse himself. Molly's smile grew wider.

"Maybe we should leave if you're not feeling well," she suggested in a concerned voice.

"Nonsense," Sherlock grunted, unwilling to let her go.

The rest of the evening passed with a series of small coughs, and unexplained hums, groans, and spasms on Sherlock's part, along with a contented sound that almost sounded like a purr from Molly.

When Sherlock took Molly home, he was surprised to be dismissed with a kiss on the forehead as she left him standing on the steps of her building. He immediately texted John.

SHE KISSED MY FOREHEAD - SH

IT'S ONE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING! - JW

ON THE FOREHEAD JOHN!- SH

GUESS WHERE YOU CAN KISS ME, MATE - JW

I WORE THE PURPLE SHIRT! - SH

MAYBE SHE'S DEVELOPED AN IMMUNITY - JW

BE SERIOUS - SH

GO TO BED - JW

I WAS HOPING TO. JUST NOT ALONE - SH

GOOD NIGHT! - JW

By the next day Sherlock decided to rethink his plan. Maybe he had failed because he was so far out of his element. Fancy restaurants and elegant dance halls were not his natural habitat. Mycroft's, perhaps, but not his. He needed someplace homey, someplace comfortable, someplace normal.

COME TO 221B AFTER YOUR SHIFT - SH

Molly read the incoming test and thought to herself, "How like Sherlock not even say…"

PLEASE - SH

WHY? -MH

WE NEED TO PRACTICE SOME DANCE MOVES- SH

YOU DIDN'T SEEM UNHAPPY WITH MY MOVES LAST NIGHT - MH

Molly could just feel him scowl.

Sherlock, however, was thinking of her head on his shoulder, and her arms around his body, and did, indeed, approve of her moves.

I THOUGHT YOU MAY LIKE TO LEARN TO TANGO - SH

Molly now realized that he upping the ante. She wasn't sure if she could keep up her air of subtle detachment during tango lessons. But, what the hell, she was planning to lose this battle eventually. She had hoped to make him suffer for a little longer, actually enjoying this feeling of superiority, even knowing that with Sherlock involved it wouldn't last for long.

SURE - MH

COME RIGHT FROM WORK. I'LL GET CHINESE FOR DINNER - SH

Molly climbed the stairs to 221B with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. Sherlock met her at the door. "Hungry?"

"Starving, actually."

"Good. We'll eat first."

Sherlock set the food containers, plates, and utensils on the coffee table in the sitting room. Molly sat on the couch and was surprised that Sherlock sat close by her side, not in his customary chair. They discussed the events of Molly's day. He was probably the only person she knew who was not at all turned off by her profession. They discussed cadavers, organ disintegration, fungal growth, and esoteric poisons as if they were the latest film or international crisis. When they had digested both the food and conversation, the tango lesson began.

Sherlock put on some sensual South American music. He took her in his arms and slowly started to explain the proper moves. They moved slowly to the music, Sherlock making her repeat several moves that he insisted she had performed incorrectly. It seemed to her that these instances always involved the closest contact and most sensuous gyrations. She felt his breath on her neck and his large hands on her back. Even when she wasn't looking at him she could feel his eyes caressing her. And when she was looking at him, she felt like she was drowning. This battle was just about over. She just hoped that he could refrain from smirking too much.

That was when her mobile phone received an incoming text. She reluctantly disentangled herself while Sherlock cursed under his breath.

NEED YOU AT BART'S. EMERGENCY - MIKE

Before she even had a chance to explain to Sherlock he had received his own text from DI Greg Lestrade asking him to come to a crime scene. "Oh, there'll be a crime scene, alright," Sherlock thought, pondering all the ways he would make "Graham" suffer for taking him away from his flat on this particular evening.

"Got to go," Molly kissed him on the cheek, scooped up her bag and headed quickly away. Sherlock wondered if there was time for a cold shower before he reported in.

When Sherlock arrived at the crime scene he was surprised to see John there, and disappointed to find that the case was no better than a five.

"This time she kissed me on the cheek, John," he announced without preface.

"That's usually your comfort zone, isn't it? Well, at least she seems to be getting closer to your preferred target area."

"John, what should I do?"

"Sherlock, you always ask me for advice, but you never take it. Now listen, you git! I have a cranky wife at home, and a collicky baby. I'm sleep deprived, and a patient vomited on me during clinic hours today. If I give you some advice, do you promise to take it? Because, when it comes right down to it, vomit, collick, cranky wife and all, I am a happy man. I have everything I want. And you do not. Do you understand?"

"Yes, John."

"Tell her what you want. Tell her your want her. Be direct. Be honest. Then jump her bones! She can defend herself. If she breaks your neck you'll be no worse off than you are now! But she won't. She loves you as much as you love her." He waited for some objection about his use of the word "love", but receiving none, he continued. "All you really have to do is tell her. She'll take care of the rest. Women are good about these things. Now get out of here. You look worse than the guys on the pavement." He took a second glance at the one without a head. "Maybe not that one. Go on. This is no more than a five. I can handle this. Go find Molly."

Sherlock wandered around for awhile, before he realized that his footsteps were taking him closer and closer to Molly's flat. She probably wouldn't be home yet because of her emergency call-in to St. Bart's. That wasn't a problem because he could always pick her lock. Then she could pretend to be mad. But they both always knew that she wasn't. He tried to think of a time when she wasn't happy to see him, and couldn't come up with a single instance. Even when he was at his worst, when a cutting remark was only a heartbeat away, he could always tell that she was happy to see him. It gave him confidence that she would be happy to see him tonight.

Molly returned to a darkened flat. She turned on the lamp in her sitting room, and patted her cat Toby on the head. He followed her into the kitchen waiting to be fed. Molly was glad she had eaten at Sherlock's place. All she could think of now was a hot shower and a warm bed. Saying goodnight to the cat, she slumped her way into the bathroom and started the shower. Soon the hot water was washing away the smell of death and the ache in her muscles. She left the shower feeling much better, wanting to just crawl into her bed, but knowing if she left her hair like this she would be left with a tangled mess in the morning. So picking up a brush and a blow dryer she began the process of taming her sodden locks.

Having finally finished, Molly wrapped herself in a bath towel and made her way down the small hallway to her bedroom. As she opened the door the light from the hall illuminated a tall figure reclining on her bed, arms tucked behind his neck and his bare feet crossed on top of her duvet.

For the briefest of moments Sherlock saw a smile twitch across her lips before her face assumed a look of stern displeasure. She really was happy to see him, just as she always was.

Encouraged by this, Sherlock was regaining some of his confidence.

"Hello, Molly, we have to talk…"

"Just how many of those purple shirts do you own, Sherlock?"

"As many as it takes, Molly Hooper."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm following John's advice. He told me, uh, just a minute, I took notes…" he fumbled in his pockets and withdrew a piece of paper. "He told me to be honest. To tell you that I want you. And to tell you that I love you." He looked up to see Molly's eyes fill with tears. This being entirely too much sentiment for Sherlock to deal with at one time, he quickly added, "He also told me to, quote, jump your bones, unquote. But being the complete gentleman that I am, I thought that I would give the opportunity to jump mine first."

So she did.

She jumped on top of him and kissed him like she had wanted to do for ages. He put one arm around her waist and tangled the other in her barely dry hair. As he returned her kiss twice over, he gently flipped her onto her back. Molly was reaching to unbutton his tight purple shirt, but was having some trouble. "What the hell," she thought to herself, "evidently he has plenty more," and she ripped the shirt open from top to bottom.

"Molly, dear, it seems you have some 'expectations'." And then he went on to satisfy every one of them.


End file.
